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Updated: May 6, 2025
He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a hansom, he said "Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15." Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock. "Where's Gibberts?" "He's just gone, sir." "Gone where?"
Practice is everything. Now, about this story, will you " "I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting to you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing. We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?" Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on the other's knee. He went on earnestly
"They all understand the circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story." "I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing the company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have come here to prevent it." Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly. "Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here knows, among my best friends."
In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced "Mr. Bromley Gibberts." "Tell him I'm busy just now tell him I'm engaged," said the editor, while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow. The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message, for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.
Gibberts started to his feet, and swore. "Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"
The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen, all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of the Sponge in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.
As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory. The Sponge was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages.
These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing, McCabe, the business manager of the Sponge, came in. "What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked. "Matter? I don't understand you."
"Oh, you saw that, did you?" "Yes. How much do you want for it?" "What?" "£50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now." "Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy." Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had never occurred to him before.
"Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that Channor Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take place?" "Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise the local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground, and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget some important detail when telling a story.
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